


just a pretty girl with a shotglass

by orphan_account



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: (I don’t hate him or anything), Carlenny is in the BG for a second, Drag, Edit: Fixed paragraph formatting for easier reading, M/M, Mainly Smoe, References ’Werking Mom’ (30x17), Somewhat Unrealistic Depictions of Alcohol, This fanfic doesn’t put Mr. Burns in a good light, Trying to portray their relationship as realistically as I can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23079394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It truly began when Waylon first found himself at Moe’s Tavern; after Mr. Burns had fired him, but before the mystery of who shot Mr. Burns was afoot. The rank stench of cigarettes and cheap alcohol and Comedy Central had begun to haunt him. Waylon was a snivelling, unshaven wreck of a man, and Moe had given him a drive home.There was a chance that he did that for all the barflies, a chance that Waylon was just another drunken stranger to Moe, but Waylon just couldn’t bring himself to forget it.When Waylon asked Moe why he had done it, his answer had been wholly unsentimental: “Hey, if you die, that’s one less customer for me.” Part of him kept hoping that it meant as much to Moe as it did to him.
Relationships: Carl Carlson/Lenny Leonard, Waylon Smithers/Moe Szyslak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	just a pretty girl with a shotglass

**Author's Note:**

> _”Just a pretty girl with a shotglass_   
>  _In your mother's borrowed shoes_   
>  _I find you in the bathroom like that_   
>  _So what else you got to lose?”_
> 
> — “Walk You Home”, Sir Chloe  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=EbWMgg0boQc

I.

  
  
  
  


“Are you sure this is a good idea, Marge?” asked Helen. 

  
  
  
  


She was carrying an armful of Tubberware bowls, bottles, and plenty of other plastic utensils. Marge smiled, as friendly a smile as she could muster, and gestured for her to put the bowls on the table. “Helen, I think it’s a lovely idea. How else am I going to get rid of all this Tubberware?” 

  
  
  
  


While Helen placed the bowls on the table, Marge poured up another cocktail. As much as she disliked Helen, Marge had her doubts about the dinner party as well. Her last dinner party went terribly awry after Homer treated himself to all the wine and passed out on the couch, where poor Ms. Wiggum was still sitting.

  
  
  
  


Marge hadn’t held a dinner party since. But all of this Tubberware had been sitting in her kitchen for weeks, and it was bothering Homer, who was awfully upset about having to rummage through them every morning. 

  
  
  
  


(Marge had told him that they were all empty, and they always would be empty, but Homer was stubborn.) 

  
  
  
  


“You didn’t sell any last time,” Maude said. “Maybe you could buy the Tubberware and donate it to the homeless shelter.” 

  
  
  
  


Marge hummed and tapped her cocktail glass. She knew that there was no chance of them being able to afford it, no matter how good the deed, but decided against telling that to Maude. 

  
  
  
  


“No, we’re saving up for Bart’s college fund. Besides, don’t you think a party could be fun?” She nudged Maude’s shoulder and passed her a cocktail. “Just us girls having a good time!” And hopefully buying some Tubberware! 

  
  
  
  


The pair of priggish church-goers didn’t look impressed, but indulged nonetheless. 

  
  
  
  


From the doorstep came a knock.

  
  
  
  


“Coming!” Marge said, and excused herself to welcome their first guest.

  
  
  
  


“Hi, Marge,” said Waylon. ‘The Mysterious Waylon’, Marge corrected. Since Tubberware was a drag queen’s game, Marge persuaded Waylon to be her sales woman for the evening. ( _Persuasion_ meant knitting him a new sweater.) 

  
  
  
  


Of course, Waylon was wary of being ‘The Mysterious Waylon’ at a party with so many of his fellow Springfielders, but Marge was almost certain that nobody would know it was him. Marge had an excuse prepared, on the off chance that someone did bring up the subject of resemblance. She would tell them that ‘The Mysterious Waylon’ was Smithers’ sister! Marge would believe it, if she hadn’t known the truth. 

  
  
  
  


That evening, Waylon had chosen an elegant dress that Helen and Maude would no doubt want for their own closet— Marge reminded herself to ask Waylon if she could borrow it sometime —and was carrying a tall wine bottle gift bag. Marge greeted him warmly and introduced him to Helen and Maude, who were waiting in the living room.

  
  
  
  


“You didn’t tell us there would be a surprise guest,” Helen said, and poked Marge’s arm, her kindly _pastor’s wife_ smile broadening by the moment. 

  
  
  
  


“I’m Waylon, but I tend to go by my middle name. Winnie. That’s short for Winnifred.” 

  
  
  
  


“Well, Winnie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Marge didn’t tell me she had such sophisticated friends!” Helen encouraged her to take a seat on the couch, and she did. “I haven’t seen Marge with anyone but those alcoholics that mope about the nearby bar!” she said, feigning a whisper with a raise of her hand. 

  
  
  
  


“Speaking of alcoholics ,” Winnie began, daintily unwrapping the scarlet red tissue paper that swathed her wine bottle, “you might want to lay off the cocktails, Helen. I can smell it on your breath.” The sharp remark was reminiscent of shooing a fly; not snide, not rude for the sake of being rude, just a passing gesture. Winnie hadn’t even spared a moment to appreciate just how outright appalled Helen was. 

  
  
  
  


Maude held a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. 

  
  
  
  


“I don’t— I don’t see how—”

  
  
  
  


While Helen stumbled on her words, distraught and hastily rifling through her purse for a pack of mints, Winnie proudly raised the bottle of wine. “Who wants cabernet?”

  
  
  
  


“Count me in!” Marge reached for a glass, but a knock on the door curtailed their red wine revelry. “That must be another guest!”

  
  
  
  


On the doorstep, quite a few guests were waiting. Reverend Lovejoy, Ned, Apu and Manjula, and another man that Marge couldn’t make out past the crowd. Marge supposed it might be Abe; Homer often forgot to drive him back to the nursing home after their monthly— though it had become more annual than monthly —visit. 

  
  
  
  


“Welcome, welcome, come right in! Thanks for coming!” Marge said, and escorted the guests to the dining room. 

  
  
  
  


Abe would wander around until a nurse found out that he was missing. Or until he remembered that his precious medicine cabinet was in the nursing home. Whichever came first. Marge wagered that it would be the latter.

  
  
  
  


II.

  
  
  
  


“Hey there. Uh, how you doin’?” Moe wrung his hands, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t holding his bar rag. Moe’s beloved bar rag was in the Tavern, and Moe was not. 

  
  
  
  


After hearing a drunken Homer ramble on about how Midge was having a dinner party, Moe began to wallow in his own misfortune, dismayed at the thought of missing out on all of the parties, the cookouts, the keggers— anything, really. That’s when Moe decided that he was going to drop by Midge’s dinner party. 

  
  
  
  


Luckily, Barney had paid off a bit of his tab (one thousandth of what he owed, but it was still a hefty sum), which meant Moe had the money to spend on a dressy suit. 

  
  
  
  


Midge didn’t bat an eye when he strolled through the door, which was promising. Still hopeful from that last encounter ( _or lack thereof_ ), Moe took a chance and approached a girl who was standing in the corridor.

  
  
  
  


“Hi there,” she said, a mysterious glint in her eye. Moe supposed it was the devil-may-care glint that romance novels often spoke of— not that he read those, because he didn’t —but he wasn’t certain. Regardless, the woman didn’t seem displeased with his presence, which he thought was a good sign. 

  
  
  
  


Rarely did Moe chance upon a woman this beautiful; grey hair that suited her dark eyes, eyes that shone in the pool of pale moonlight that was spilling from the window, eyes that Moe remembered somehow, as if he had seen them many times before. Moe hoped that this was a profound remembrance, that they married each other in a past life, and not that she was the girl who blinded him with pepper spray on the sidewalk. 

  
  
  
  


“I’m Moe. Friend o’ Midge’s, we go way back. Yeah, she’s a good one.” He feigned a nostalgic gaze into the distance, and said, “So, uh, what’s your name?”

  
  
  
  


“I’m Way— Winnie , I’m Winnie.” She grimaced, and said wryly, “Couldn’t even remember my own name.”

  
  
  
  


“No worries, I have the same problem.”

  
  
  
  


One of her brows arched, and she asked, rather dubiously, “Really?” 

  
  
  
  


“Not the exact same problem, but, uh… y’know, my last name’s Szyslak. It’s uh, got a Z in it ‘nd everything. When I was younger, I had a hard time remembering how to say it all. Couldn’t write my own name, neither. And they don’t give you no help or nothin’, just make fun of you. Little bastards,” Moe muttered. “I didn’t have the big fancy education school or nothin’. But, uh, it ain't a big deal. What’s a name, y’know?”

  
  
  
  


Winnie’s eyes fell to her glass of cabernet, dark and still, seemingly seeking a message or a hidden sign in the rich, rolling red. All at once, in what seemed to be a bid for the courage at the bottom of the glass, Winnie tipped the glass into her mouth, all of the wine gone in one fell swoop. 

  
  
  
  


The uncharacteristically graceless gesture made Moe chuckle, a hearty chuckle that went against his grouchy, disgruntled bartender roots, and Winnie crimsoned. 

  
  
  
  


Much more boldly than before, perhaps owing to the wine, she spoke, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet!”

  
  
  
  


“I ain’t gotta pay to see some half-assed Broadway show, I’ve got an actor right here!” A round of applause; all from Moe, but applause nonetheless.

  
  
  
  


A theatre performer through and through, Winnie smiled winsomely and thanked her crowd of one. “You’re too kind.” 

  
  
  
  


“Ain’t that from Romeo and Juliet ?” 

  
  
  
  


“It is,” Winnie said.

  
  
  
  


Moe’s encounter with Romeo and Juliet had been far from picturesque: he had happened upon a dog-eared copy of the play while waiting at the bus stop. Hoping to find out if it was worth a nickel or two, he pocketed the abandoned paperback and combed through it for the retail price. While thumbing through the pages, Moe had begun reading, and was drawn to the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Determined to reach the end, Moe kept reading, missed the bus, and was promptly charged with a fine for loitering. 

  
  
  
  


(Afterwards, Moe settled the fine by selling the copy to a homeless man who needed some spare paper for his illegal bonfire. Beggars can’t be choosers.) 

  
  
  
  


Moe hadn't meant to read it— and if someone pestered him, he would lie about having read it at all —but when he heard Winnie speak, his patchy memory pieced it together. “I never seen true beauty ‘till this night.” 

  
  
  
  


“Oh, well,” Winnie trailed off, her words falling to a hush. 

  
  
  
  


Moe clapped his hand on his forehead. “Don’t tell me. Did I get it wrong? Damn it, I knew—” 

  
  
  
  


“No, no. It’s just that… well, you're very sweet. That's all.”

  
  
  
  


“O’course. A lady like youse deserves the best.”

  
  
  
  


“A gentleman,” Winnie said, and raised her glass. 

  
  
  
  


“Yeah, well, I try.”

  
  
  
  


On the bottom floor, guests meandered, their pleasantries predictable and pretended. Moe drummed his fingers on the railing. “Nice party.”

  
  
  
  


Before their back-and-forth could fall into that same predictable rhythm, Winnie pressed her lips to his, timid at first but then not at all . When Moe began to return the kiss, Winnie took ahold of his shirt collar and tugged him in. It was a daring kiss, not the unfamiliar, inhibited first kiss that Moe had prepared himself for. 

  
  
  
  


Winnie patted the wall, and after a moment, wound her fingers around a doorknob. The two stumbled into the nearest room, Moe threading his fingers through her hair, and Winnie’s hands settling on the back of his neck, tangled together. This lasted for a while, until Winnie’s lips parted with his, and there was an intimate quiet. 

  
  
  
  


Once the moment had passed, short-lived though it was, Winnie’s eyes widened with what seemed to be shame; almost apologetic in nature, though Moe had no answer as to why. Winnie broke the embrace. “I have to go,” she said curtly, and nodded to her pager. “My boss is expecting me.” 

  
  
  
  


“That’s too bad,” Moe said. 

  
  
  
  


Bluffing was bearable, much more bearable than being honest with himself. Being honest meant having to confess that he thought, if only for a mere moment, that Winnie was the Juliet to his lonely, unsightly Romeo. 

  
  
  
  


It was something out of a Krusty the Clown stand-up routine, worth a chuckle out of pity and not much else. _Can ya blame her, folks? He's got a face only a mother could love! So long, Moe! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!_ Moe heard Krusty’s signature chortle in his head, and then reminded himself to lay off the Krusty brand vodka. (The bottle’s label _did_ mention auditory hallucinations.) 

  
  
  
  


While Moe happily pictured bashing Krusty’s face in, Winnie wrote her name and number on the Tubberware order form she had been keeping in her purse.

  
  
  
  


“Call me,” she said, and passed him the paper with a small, hopeful smile.

  
  
  
  


III.

  
  
  
  


Waylon woke and blindly reached out to his bedstand, worried that he had missed Mr. Burns’ early morning breakfast. Fortunately, the clock read six o’ clock, which meant Waylon had time to prepare a breakfast of his own. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon rose from his bed, pajamas wrinkled and hair rumpled. 

  
  
  
  


Barking eagerly, Hercules greeted Waylon with a chewed-up pink slipper. “So that’s where my slipper went,” Waylon said, one brow raised at his unruly little dog. 

  
  
  
  


As soon as Hercules began to wag his little tail, no doubt clueless, Waylon petted him on the head. The dog trainer once told him to discourage bad behaviour in times like this, but Waylon wasn’t going to let anyone tell him how to raise his dog. Instead, Waylon gave him a treat. Hercules happily nibbled. 

  
  
  
  


While stirring his coffee, Waylon dealt with the answering machine, which had two unheard messages waiting. Since he was assistant to one of the wealthiest men in America, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Waylon to have countless messages at the office. But Waylon’s home telephone was forgotten for the most part; his work meant a great deal to him, and as such, his social life was unimpressive. Other than Marge, Waylon rarely kept in touch with anyone. 

  
  
  
  


And that’s when Waylon remembered the dinner party. After promising Marge that Winnie would stay until every last Tubberware container was long gone, Waylon had stepped out the door without so much as a goodbye.

  
  
  
  


Mr. Burns had paged him. The hounds were being troublesome again. While Waylon would have much rathered the dinner party over having to fend for himself in a pit of feral hounds (whose rabies shots were long overdue), Waylon couldn’t stand to disregard his pager. As much as he disliked himself for doing so, Waylon carried out his duties and everything else came second. 

  
  
  
  


_Two messages remaining._

  
  
  
  


Waylon prepared himself for a long-winded telling-off, a well deserved one, and pressed the play button. 

  
  
  
  


“Hi, Waylon. It’s Marge. I just wanted to know if everything was alright. You left the party in a hurry, and I was worried. What else, what else… Oh! We sold all the Tubberware! I can’t wait to rub it in Helen’s face at the bake sale. Anyway, look at me babbling on… I hope you’re doing well. Call me back soon! Bye-bye.”

  
  
  
  


“Thank you so, so much,” Waylon murmured under his breath, glad for Marge and himself. Unwinding at brunch with Marge was what kept him going. Who else would be willing to listen to him ramble on about having to tend to Mr. Burns every waking hour of the day? Waylon was dedicated to his boss, but being his sole footman— and companion, when Mr. Burns was feeling fond —took quite a toll. 

  
  
  
  


Grateful that Marge wasn’t going to press a button and have him fall through a trapdoor (unlike Mr. Burns, who was ringing his pager at that very moment), Waylon reminded himself to give her a thank-you card. Handwritten, too.

  
  
  
  


_One message remaining._

  
  
  


“Hey, uh, hope this ain’t a fake number… not that I think you’d do that or anything! It’s Moe. From Midge’s dinner party. Just thought I’d say I had a good time. Hope I ain’t the only one. Maybe we could meet up sometime. Anyway, uh, bye.”

  
  
  
  


Despite being smitten with Moe for the longest time, Waylon seldom spoke to him. It truly began when Waylon first found himself at Moe’s Tavern; after Mr. Burns had fired him, but before the mystery of who shot Mr. Burns was afoot. The rank stench of cigarettes and cheap alcohol and Comedy Central had begun to haunt him. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon was a snivelling, unshaven wreck of a man, and Moe had given him a drive home. 

  
  
  
  


There was a chance that he did that for all the barflies, a chance that Waylon was just another drunken stranger to Moe, but Waylon just couldn’t bring himself to forget it. 

  
  
  
  


When Waylon asked Moe why he had done it, his answer had been wholly unsentimental: “Hey, if you die, that’s one less customer for me.” Part of him kept hoping that it meant as much to Moe as it did to him. 

  
  
  
  


Quietly pining after Moe didn’t bring about much trouble, but kissing him was like poking at a beehive. Waylon was a fraud, a wolf in sheep’s clothing— or a wine red dress —and Moe deserved better. Moe wouldn’t forgive him for this, that was a given, but Waylon owed him the truth. 

  
  
  
  


He reached for the phone, relying on a hope that the right words would come to him rather than preparing an apology beforehand (though the thought of following his heart was a bit too _lovey-dovey_ for his liking).

  
  
  
  


His hand stilled. 

  
  
  
  


Telling him over the phone would be shameful, Waylon decided. Determined to right his wrong, he polished off his coffee and dressed himself nicely. Moe’s Tavern was nearby. After Mr. Burns dismissed him for the evening, he would march to the Tavern and tell Moe the truth about Winnie. 

  
  
  
  


The mere thought made Waylon weary with dread, but the guilt was far worse. Perhaps, in many, many years, they would chance upon one another and chuckle at this mishap. After a moment of picturing it, he found himself in a rose-tinted fantasy where they’re happily married and own two yorkies— Hercules, of course, and Zeus —and live in a quaint woodland cottage. 

  
  
  
  


When Hercules began to bark and paw at the door, Waylon was reminded, rather unceremoniously, of his present obligations.

  
  
  
  


Once more, Waylon found himself drawn to the phone, wanting badly to rid himself of all this trouble. Knowing that he would regret it afterwards, Waylon willed himself out the door. 

  
  
  
  


IV.

  
  
  
  


“Can I have a scotch and water?” he asked, taking a seat near the corner. From across the bar, Moe nodded and poured up a glass. Waylon waited quietly, listening to the other patrons who had long since settled in. 

  
  
  
  


Homer Simpson, a middling barfly who had a history of being a one-man wrecking ball, was sitting nearby. He knew him as Marge’s husband, and as one of the inspectors for Sector 7-G, but hadn't spoken to him about anything other than his duties at the plant. 

  
  
  
  


Carl and Lenny, two more familiar faces from the plant, were seated to the left of Homer. They were all having a good chuckle. 

  
  
  
  


“Moe, is this another one of them online scams?” asked Carl.

  
  
  
  


“Yeah, did she ask for money?” asked Lenny.

  
  
  
  


Moe shook his head, and slid them two glasses of Duff. “Lay off, fellas. I swear , Winnie is one of the most authentic ladies I ever met.”

  
  
  
  


“Uh huh,” Carl said, chuckling at the thought. “And Homer played pool with Quentin Tarantino.”

  
  
  
  


“I did !” Homer blustered. “I won, too!”

  
  
  
  


Lenny shrugged. “Well, I just don't know if you should be getting her presents this early on.” He gestured to the basket that was sitting to the right of the cash register. It was a trim little basket, tied up with a ribbon and a gift tag. A box of chocolates, muffins, and pink flowers poked out of the top. “Seems a little, uh… what's the word?”

  
  
  
  


“Premature,” answered Carl.

  
  
  
  


“Premature! See, that's why I’m shacked up with this guy. He’s a genius,” Lenny said, knocking their shoulders together.

  
  
  
  


“Yeah, yeah.” Moe began to pour a helping of scotch. “Think what you like, I’m doin’ it right this time. I’m bein’ a gentleman.”

He passed the glass to Waylon, who was fiddling with his phone, and kept on bickering with the barflies. Meanwhile, Waylon was baffled. Gift? Waylon had tried dating; had tried falling in love, had tried cooking candle-lit dinners and the bouquets of roses, but Waylon had never been given a gift. Having someone sincerely and wholesomely return his affections made his heart _ache_. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon treated himself to the scotch, in the hopes that it would quiet his troubled thoughts. No such luck. “Another scotch, no water.” 

  
  
  
  


Moe studied him for a moment before returning to his scotch shelf. “It’s not every day you come into my bar. It ain’t a very classy joint. I mean, nobody comes here unless they got an A.A membership card in their back pocket.” 

  
  
  
  


He almost seemed worried, but Waylon couldn’t tell if that was just another trick from the bartender’s bible. Heart-to-hearts meant wallowing, which meant grief, which meant drowning in alcohol. 

  
  
  
  


“So, uh, what gives?” 

  
  
  
  


“Love,” he said shortly, and shook his head. “It’s all nonsense, I think.”

  
  
  
  


Moe slid him a glass. “If I were you, I’d ditch that old crone. He’s no good.” 

  
  
  
  


“Not him this time,” Waylon said, and fought the urge to knock back his glass, if only for Moe’s sake. 

  
  
  
  


Moe brightened. “Hey! That’s good news.”

  
  
  
  


“I suppose so,” Waylon said, and hastily had at his drink. Another glass, another...

  
  
  
  


Waylon said, “He treated me.. badly.” 

  
  
  
  


“Could never understand what you saw in him. And them nasty dogs— yeech .”

  
  
  
  


“They’re not all nasty,” Waylon said thickly, the alcohol bitter in his throat. The scotch was hitting him all at once. 

  
  
  
  


“Sometimes, the hounds were god _awful_. I wanted to leave, I honestly did, but I couldn’t. Other times, the hounds were kind, and they were gentle, and I fell in love with them all over again. I dedicated my life to them.”

  
  
  
  


A moment passed.

  
  
  
  


“I needed the hounds.” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Part of him knew that his sorry ramblings were the aftermath of alcohol and the grief that he had been sweeping under the carpet for some time. “I need _him_. Monty.” 

  
  
  
  


“No, you don't,” Moe said, and abruptly clapped his hands on the bar. Startled, Waylon snapped upright. “Waylon, you're a great guy. Hey. I’m serious, alright? You don't need no balding skeleton to kick you around.”

  
  
  
  


“God, Moe…”

  
  
  
  


The yellow light of a passing car spilled through the windows, and for a moment, everything felt gauzy and golden. Waylon wanted him, but even through the haze of the alcohol he knew that he wasn’t Winnie. “I’m sorry, Moe. God, I’m _really_ sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

  
  
  
  


“Hey, it's okay,” Moe said. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon knew that, as a weathered bartender, Moe must have heard countless drunken apologies throughout the years. 

  
  
  
  


Unlike those apologies, however, Waylon’s certainly wasn't a foolish apology to forget come morning. Apologizing to him after that many drinks wasn't the best of timing, Waylon then thought, but his poor alcohol-riddled judgment told him otherwise.

  
  
  
  


“Moe, _I’m_ Winnie. I was dressed up. It was for the dinner party. I’m sorry, I was going to tell you when you said hello— but I didn't, and I kissed you, and…” Waylon trailed off, staring at anything other than Moe to spare himself the heartache. His face was hot with shame. “If you want to kick me out of this bar, I won't blame you. I deserve it. I’m sorry.”

  
  
  
  


Moe didn't seem rattled.

  
  
  
  


Rather, he took his time returning the scotch to the shelf and poured the remains of his glass into the sink. “Waylon, I can’t… I can't talk about this with you right now. You’re drunk as a dog,” he said, wringing his bar rag. 

  
  
  
  


There didn't seem to be an ounce of rancor on Moe’s part, which was somewhat jarring, but Waylon decided against questioning it. “How are you getting home?”

  
  
  
  


“A cab, probably,” Waylon said, trying to gather himself before Moe had the chance to assume he was the same weepy, drunken fool from years ago. He dried his eyes with his sleeve. 

  
  
  
  


“I can give you a ride, if you want. The bar’s closed,” Moe offered. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon’s eyes went wide, and he muttered in disbelief at his watch, which read 12:00pm. “Oh. If you don't mind.”

  
  
  
  


Out of his pocket came a worn keychain. The numbers had been rubbed off. “I don't mind. The car ain’t a beaut, but a little rust never hurt nobody. Let me tell you, she’ll last longer than any of those lousy electric cars. Ain't no robots taking over my car.” 

  
  
  
  


“I don't like electric cars all that much myself,” Waylon said quietly, and walked with Moe to the door. The shame had worn off some, and Waylon had a hunch that was the alcohol’s doing. They stepped down the stairs, Waylon trying hard not to stumble on his own feet, and Moe steadying him with a hand on his shoulder when he did.

  
  
  
  


V.

  
  
  
  


“Nice neighborhood,” Moe said. 

  
  
  
  


It reminded Waylon of the time Homer had come across the neighborhood a short while ago; there was the remark about the bookstores, a chuckle at the shirtless statues, all pleasantly clueless. Waylon prepared an excuse as to why he lived in what was rumored to be the “gay” part of Springfield. 

  
  
  
  


Having to address the little-known subject that was his sexual orientation would be an ordeal of its own. Truth be told, his drunken confession might have done the coming-out for him.

  
  
  
  


“It’s fine.”

  
  
  
  


“If I lived like this, I’d be on top o’the world.” 

  
  
  
  


Across the street was Waylon’s house. It was a modest home, but Waylon kept it tidy. Since Waylon had decided to take more time for himself, he had tried his hand at gardening. His once bristly bushes were trimmed, and lined with flowers that Waylon had picked out himself. 

  
  
  
  


Any other day, Waylon would have been proud of his handiwork, but he was too worn out to tell Moe all about the peculiar names of the flowers and how long it had taken him to paint the picket fence. Instead, Waylon said, rather plainly, “I have coffee.”

  
  
  
  


Moe raised a brow. “Shouldn’t you be drinking water?”

  
  
  
  


“I have a high tolerance,” said Waylon, though he didn't believe it himself. “I think I have enough for two.”

  
  
  
  


“Might as well,” Moe said. “Barney ought to be knocking down my door now, rantin’ and ravin’ about god knows what.” 

  
  
  
  


“Wouldn’t want to miss that.” 

  
  
  
  


Moe followed Waylon to the doorstep. He reached into his pocket for the keys, and after some jostling the lock around, gave the door a good jerk. From the corridor came the yap-yapping of Hercules, who scampered across the room to welcome him home. Before greeting him, however, Hercules sniffed at Moe. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon scooped him up and said, “Don’t worry, that’s just Moe. He’s a friend.” _Friend_ , Waylon reminded himself, a little discouraged but grateful that Moe hadn’t decided to hold a grudge. Hercules wriggled out of Waylon’s arms and settled into the sitting room, sniffing at Moe from his spot on the couch. 

  
  
  
  


“Guard dog, eh?” Moe scratched him behind the ear, and Hercules happily wagged his tail.

  
  
  
  


“His name is Hercules,” Waylon began. “It’s because he’s so small.” 

  
  
  
  


Moe had a wholehearted chuckle at that. 

  
  
  
  


“I should make the coffee,” said Waylon, yawning as he spoke, but Moe took ahold of his shoulder before he could reach the corridor. 

  
  
  
  


“ _I’m_ gettin’ _youse_ a cup of water,” Moe said, pressing a finger to his chest. 

  
  
  
  


“There's really no need to—”

  
  
  
  


Moe was persistent. “Ain’t no way I’m changin’ my mind, pal. Sit down on the couch or somethin’, I got this covered.” 

  
  
  
  


Waylon heard Moe’s footsteps in the corridor as he found the kitchen, and began to poke around the unfamiliar cupboards for a proper glass. In the meantime, Waylon kept the sleep at bay with what 12:00pm television had to offer; a dozen romantic comedies, a cheap buddy-cop movie, and an old-fashioned sitcom that was on its last legs. 

  
  
  
  


After some thought, he settled on a rom-com. He crossed his arms and scoffed at every predictable trope, happy to grumble about a movie rather than worry himself about his own romantic troubles. 

  
  
  
  


Soon, Waylon was yawning. His eyes were narrowing, and his thoughts had begun to drift from sleep to short bouts of wakefulness. He could barely glean anything from the garble of the television. After a while, Waylon fell asleep, and his weariness was forgotten. 

  
  
  
  


He slept well for the first time in a month; no ringing from his pager, no paperwork to bother him. 

  
  
  
  


By the time Moe had arrived with a glassful of water, Waylon was sound asleep. Hercules had since curled up in his lap. He quietly returned the glass and stepped out the door. 

  
  
  
  


VI.

  
  
  
  


“Good morning, sir,” Waylon said dutifully.

  
  
  
  


“And a pleasant morrow to you, Smithers!” Mr. Burns rose from his chair, smiling broadly. 

  
  
  
  


“Is anything wrong?” asked Waylon, worried that he had forgotten to give Mr. Burns his morning dose of medication. 

  
  
  
  


“No, quite the contrary. This morning, the postman gave us a visit…” Mr. Burns held up a finger, and then reached around under his desk, humming to a tune as he did. “It seems you’ve romanced another lady, Smithers! Quite the Romeo, eh?” In his hands was a trim basket, tied with a ribbon and a gift tag. A very familiar basket. 

  
  
  
  


Waylon must have seemed more than a little addled, because Mr. Burns then said, “Don’t worry, I haven’t read the tag.” While Mr. Burns carried on with his spiel, Waylon kept himself from plucking the basket out of his hands. “Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Unless they have to do with me or the nuclear plant. When we met, you signed a contract forbidding any secrets that involve my finance.” 

  
  
  
  


“Sir, forgive me for being impertinent, but…” Waylon gestured to the basket. “May I have it?”

  
  
  
  


“Go on,” Mr. Burns said. “But don’t write any florid love letters to your admirer on my time, Smithers. Save that drivel for your lunch hour.” 

  
  
  
  


“Yes, sir.” 

  
  
  


Waylon hefted the basket into his arms and hurried to his office. When it came time to unwrap the peculiar present, Waylon swept aside anything that was sitting on his desk and reminded himself to straighten it up some other time. Afraid that this basket might be a means of apologizing— or worse, a parting gift —Waylon read the tag. 

  
  
  
  


_To: Waylon_

_The only thing I liked about Winnie was how much she reminded me of you_

_To be honest, I think I’m in love with you_

_Sorry it took me so damn long to figure it out_

_From: Moe_

And Waylon began to tear up.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious Consent: Moe kisses Waylon in drag, unaware that he's actually kissing Waylon. (No ill intent.)


End file.
